


Detritus

by voleuse



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-27
Updated: 2007-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Truth accrues in pieces</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detritus

**Author's Note:**

> Post-series AU. Title and summary taken from _Clearing the Yard_ by Emily Rosko.

_i. recognition_

She almost didn't notice him, ensconced in a booth near the pub's entrance.

His hair was longer than she remembered, ragged, and he slouched against the back of his bench, an arm draped over the back of it. His coat was drab, nowhere near the dark finery she remembered.

It would have been easy to overlook him, even with her war-trained wariness, and she only recognized him when he met her eyes, for a moment. A flash of gray, in passing, and something in her chest had seized with panic before she processed what she had seen.

She slid into the booth, and he had already noticed her, because his hand clenched around the dull knife beside his plate, as if he could banish her with a stab and a curse. _What do you want_ was already forming on his lips, and she didn't have an answer, so she cut ahead of his voice.

"I think I could do with a pint, as well," she mused. She waved at a waiter as he passed by, and by the time she was done ordering her curry, Draco had eased back to nonchalance.

He never let go of the knife.

_ii. suspicion_

The second time she entered the pub, shaking snow from her hair, she told herself it had been a chance meeting. Even so, she slid into the booth of the day before and waited.

Draco arrived twenty minutes after she did, and she had already ordered her meal. His mouth twisted at the sight of her, but she couldn't bring herself to mirror the expression.

They ate in silence, drank in silence. They paid separately, in silence, but she, at least, didn't think of standing, of walking away. Letting her footprints in grey ice mark an end to everything that haunted her.

The third time, they arrived within five minutes of each other, and the fourth time, as well. The weekend was their break from each other, but Monday hailed another meeting.

It's better to keep your enemies close, she thought, but she knew they had all died two years, three months, two weeks, and six days ago.

She knew, because that was when her allies died, as well.

It was habit, or regret, or Stockholm Syndrome. Besides, she was fond of the pub itself, and not even the ghost of war would drive her away.

_iii. admission_

It was two and a half weeks before they had an actual conversation. Something with content, rather, with full sentences instead of fragments. It was small talk, or what passed for it. Hermione caught a fragment of entertainment news on the television, and her snort of disdain fed Draco's ire regarding pop stars.

When they finished their meal, they walked out together. When Draco turned left, into a dark, snow-filled alley, she followed him, unthinking. He glanced at her, unsmiling, and she caught his elbow, pressed him to the concrete wall.

That his lips were cold was unsurprising, but the heat of his mouth was shocking in that aftermath. She was clumsy with her gloves, her fingers stiff within the wool, but she managed to tuck her hand into his waistband, pull at the fastenings of his trousers until they gave way.

Draco spun them around, yanked her thick skirts up with impatience. His gloves, supple leather, were cool against her thighs. As he lifted her, she whispered a spell aloud--the first one she had cast since the end of everything.

His eyes widened at the spell, but he sank into her, regardless. The words that spilled from his lips were less than magic, and Hermione found herself robbed entirely of her vocabulary.

She arched against Draco, writhing at each thrust. The fabric of her coat caught against the concrete, scraping audibly. His fingers bit into her hips, and she wondered whether they were deep enough in shadow to escape notice. She wondered whether she really cared. The steam of their breath mingled in the frozen air, stung her throat as he plunged, one final time, into her.

Her shoulders stuttered against the concrete as he released her, his arms framing her as he slumped. Her knees weakened, Hermione clutched at his forearms as she caught her breath. Her body hummed, unsatisfied, and she trapped curses behind her teeth.

Draco pressed a last kiss against her jaw, then pushed away from the wall. "I'm that way," he said, jerking his head towards the end of the alley, lit by a single lamp.

"Right," she said, and she watched him trudge away.

_iv. juxtaposition_

The next evening, Draco was already in their booth when she arrived, and her curry arrived as she sat.

They didn't speak, and they didn't smile, but his gaze against her was intent, promising.

Hermione sipped her beer, and thought of the many ways she used to be happy, and how she had lost all of them, in a fell swoop. She thought of all the ways she wasn't happy, even now.

They ate in silence, and paid in silence, but when Draco stood, he offered her a hand as she slid out of the booth.

Maybe this was how things are, she thought. Maybe this was the way things had to be.


End file.
